The Golden Scar
The alarm didn’t ring so much as it sighed, a low, vibrating hum that rattled the teeth in the skull of every employee on the forty-second floor of the Ministry of Civil Compliance. It was a Tuesday, or what passed for Tuesday in the grey, perpetual twilight of the city, and the air in the open-plan office tasted of stale ozone and the specific, metallic dread of impending audit. Arthur...
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